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Books by Claire Cook

Life Glows On: Reconnecting with Your Creativity to Make the Rest of Your Life the Best of Your Life

Shine On: How to Grow Awesome Instead of Old

Never Too Late: Your Roadmap to Reinvention

The Wildwater Walking Club (#1)

The Wildwater Walking Club: Back on Track (#2)

The Wildwater Walking Club: Step by Step (#3)

Time Flies

Wallflower in Bloom

Must Love Dogs Boxed Set Books 1-3

Must Love Dogs (#1)

Must Love Dogs: New Leash on Life (#2)

Must Love Dogs: Fetch You Later (#3)

Must Love Dogs: Bark & Roll Forever (#4)

Must Love Dogs: Who Let the Cats In? (#5)

Must Love Dogs: A Howliday Tail (#6)

Must Love Dogs: Hearts & Barks (#7)

Must Love Dogs: Lucky Enough (#8)

Best Staged Plans

Seven Year Switch

Summer Blowout

Life’s a Beach

Multiple Choice

Ready to Fall

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Praise for Must Love Dogs

“Every time I get my paws on a new Must Love Dogs book, I feel like my pup on the verge of getting a favorite treat. I jump, I squeal, and I promptly devour the whole thing. Claire Cook’s characters are like family at this point, and it feels so doggone good to be spending the holidays with them.”—Book Perfume

“Must Love Dogs has already been a major motion picture, and now New York Times bestselling author Claire Cook’s hilarious and heartwarming series is begging to hit the screen again as a miniseries or a sitcom.”—New York Journal of Books”

“Reading about how life goes for this wacky marvelously lovable family becomes addictive.”—Examiner

“Funny and pitch perfect.”—Chicago Tribune

“Wildly witty.”—USA Today

“Cook dishes up plenty of charm.”—San Francisco Chronicle

“This book is a hoot.”—The Boston Globe

“This utterly charming novel by Cook is a fun read, perfect for whiling away an afternoon on the beach.”—Library Journal

Claire Cook (Must Love Dogs) has built a brand writing light-hearted women’s fiction blending kernels of the absurd and comedic in compulsively readable combinations.—Shelf Awareness

The exuberant and charming Claire Cook is one of the sassiest and funniest creators of contemporary women’s fiction.—The Times-Picayune

“A beach tote couldn’t ask for more.”—Kirkus

“Cook’s humor and narrative execution are impeccable.”—Publishers Weekly

“Cook has a light, fun voice and always infuses her stories with great wit and heart.” –Cape Cod Times 

“It is never too late to find your place in the world.”—San Francisco Book Review 

“Cook’s humor and narrative execution are impeccable.”—Publishers Weekly

Chapter One

So apparently buying the family house also meant inheriting Thanksgiving dinner. I guess John and I should have read between the lines before we signed the purchase and sales agreement.

No surprise, my family took it upon themselves to make sure I knew. Three of my five siblings just happened to show up one day without warning, or even knocking, to take their old seats around the scarred pine trestle table in the kitchen. If there was a gene for boundaries, it had definitely skipped at least this generation of the Hurlihy family.

“But we can’t have Thanksgiving here,” I tried. “We’re under construction.” I meant that literally, since my sister Christine’s contractor husband Joe and his crew were knee deep in renovating our new-old house. But I meant it figuratively, too, as in John and I were trying to construct a life together, a sub-family of our own.

Not an easy task amidst the insanity of living with my father, who had come with the house, and who had a tendency to hog most of the available air in any given room. Polly, my pregnant and single assistant teacher, had moved in, too, after being traumatized when a recent nor’easter rolled through her waterfront winter rental on the other side of Marshbury. Oh, and we’d rescued a mama feral cat and her four kittens, who were still working things out with John’s dog Horatio.

Hosting Thanksgiving on top of all that seemed like something that should happen, say, a week from never.

“We have to have dinner here,” my sister Christine said. “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving otherwise.”

Even though I knew it probably wasn’t going to fly, I flashed my most pitiful look. “But I’ve never cooked a turkey in my entire life. I’ve never even touched one.”

“Sure, you’ve never touched a turkey,” my sister Carol said. “Would you like a list?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Ex-husbands don’t count.”

Carol put her hands on her hips. “Yeah, they do.”

“We might want to think this through,” my brother Michael said, “considering Sarah’s idea of cooking is preheating the oven and wandering away.” He grinned our mother’s crooked smile, which always made me miss her all over again, even though she’d been gone for more years than I wanted to count.

“All my girls are good cooks, thank the good Lord.” Our dad made his entrance across the speckled linoleum floor as if it were an off-off Broadway stage. He raked a wayward clump of white hair from his watery brown eyes, leaned over and patted my hand with one of his beefy paws. “I’ll be busy setting up my man cavern by turkey day, God willin’. But if you need any help that won’t take more than a minute or two, feel free to give me a holler, Christine.”

I slid my hand out from under my father’s and patted him back. “Sarah. And if you need any help remembering my name that won’t take more than a minute or two, feel free to give me a holler.”

Eventually my family decided to pick on somebody else, as they almost always did if you waited long enough. I took a moment to wonder when my own particular version of the luck o’ the Irish had morphed into a bad case of Murphy’s Law. I’d probably be stuck hosting Thanksgiving dinner until Hell froze over. Or at least until I managed to come up with a genius escape strategy.

Until then, survival was my goal.

Time flew, like calendar pages in an old movie, and suddenly it was the day before Thanksgiving.

Back in 1978, President Jimmy Carter had officially proclaimed the second Sunday of September Grandparents Day. Celebrating the importance of grandparents in our lives was a terrific gesture, but beyond providing diehard Hallmark card fans with another trip to the store and the mailbox, it never really took off.

So Bayberry Preschool kept the sentiment and changed the date to make it work with our school calendar, something preschool teachers probably would have suggested way back when if anybody at the White House had thought to consult them.

Today, the half-day before Thanksgiving, was now Grandparents Day at Bayberry. This was Bayberry’s sweet and memorable way of honoring the kids’ doting grandparents, many of whom traveled far and wide to celebrate Thanksgiving with their adorable grandchildren.

Slightly more calculating was the fact that a few hours of oohing and awwing over the grandparents often resulted in some serious donations for the school.

As the grandparents arrived, cute turkey stick-on nametags would be distributed. Email and snail mail addresses would be collected. Once the next day’s turkey dinners had been digested and the grandparents were home again, a letter would arrive from Kate Stone, Bayberry’s founding director, aka our bitch of a boss. Wouldn’t it be lovely if your grandchildren could learn to read their grandparents’ names engraved on a special brick on the new entry courtyard? On an engraved plaque on a dismissal bench? Or why not donate a piece of playground equipment so your precious grandchild could not only read your name but also think of you every time s/he took a spin around the safety-first jungle gym? A giving pyramid designed by the fundraising committee, printed in full color on heavy paper stock, was tucked in with the letter.

It was genius. And the best part about it was that the more well-heeled and bejeweled grandparents had a tendency to get a little bit competitive. One set of grandparents even donated a chic barn-like addition to the school that served as meeting space, gym, theater, concert hall, indoor playground and fitness court, large art project room, and occasional teacher hideout area. The massive brass plaque just inside the door proclaimed it the Jebediah J. Jones IV and Dr. Aubrey C. Jacobs Family Gateway to Excellence Barn. Everybody else called it the all-purpose room.

The sad part about Grandparents Day was that not every child could produce a grandparent. In each classroom, year in and year out, at least one grandparent-less child dissolved into a puddle of tears by the time early dismissal rolled around.

The other teachers and I had brought up this issue at multiple staff meetings over the years. Kate Stone waved our worries away, visions of potential donations flashing before her eyes.

When pressed, our bitch of a boss would say, “Step out of the box and use your creativity. Turn the day into a lesson in sharing. The students who have grandparents can simply share them with the others.”

Spoken like an administrator who had forgotten her own teaching days. Sharing the crayons was enough of a challenge for preschoolers, especially the day before a holiday when excitement was high and self-control was slim to none.

So this year I’d decided to bring in a ringer, a stand-in grandparent to pass around—my dad. The best thing about this idea was that my father was free on the morning before Thanksgiving. The worst thing about it was that a lifetime of experience had taught me only too well that pretty much anything could happen, and often did, when my father was involved.

The thing about your family is that you never quite stop hoping you can change them into the people you’d prefer them to be.

I wasn’t taking any chances, so my plan was to make my father ride to school with me this morning. “Hurry up,” I yelled up the staircase. “My boss has zero sense of humor when the preschoolers get to school before the teachers.”

Polly passed through the kitchen and gave me a thumbs up on the way out the door, reassuring me that at least one of us would get there before the kids.

My father thudded down the stairs wearing a pink Bark & Roll Forever T-shirt and carrying a handful of business cards with little dog treats tied to them with ribbons. When he wasn’t letting his middle daughter drag him to school, my dad drove a pink ice cream truck and passed out the cards for the three women who owned the Bark & Roll Forever dog and cat sitting and boarding business.

“You’re not wearing that to school,” slipped out of my mouth. I flashed back to all the times my mother had said the same thing to me a gazillion years ago. Overly mini miniskirts. Too much green eyeshadow or frosted lipstick. A slightly see-through blouse.

Under his shaggy eyebrows, my dad did his wide-eyed innocent look. “Just using my noggin. I figure I’ll follow you in the ice cream truck, and if things get slow, I can pass out some Nutty Buddys and the kiddos can take turns going for rides with me in the ice cream truck. I’ll make it educational, don’t you worry. You know, teach ’em how to lay a little rubber, pop a wheelie or three.”

“Right,” I said. “No liability issues there. I mean it, Dad. March right back up those stairs, change into something grandfatherly, and jump in the car with me. Now.”

He came back down wearing a blue T-shirt that said I’M A GRANDPA, WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?

“Perfect,” I said, relieved that he’d chosen this T-shirt over his Thanksgiving sweatshirt with the picture of a roasted turkey on it that said I’M A BREAST MAN. I decided to overlook the fact that he was also wearing a pair of gold suspenders. And his Coast Guard Auxiliary hat.

While I drove us to school, my dad sang a few verses of “I Gotta Be Me” in his long-practiced Sammy Davis Jr. imitation.

I did my best to block him out so I could go over my plans for the day in my head. Turkey placemats never got old, so earlier in the week Polly and I had passed out sheets of 10” by 14” oak tag paper. We helped the kids trace their hands and turn them into turkeys, then let them decorate the rest of their placemats with a tsunami of finger paint.

When they’d finished their own placemats, they made more for their grandparents or for my dad. Polly and I made extras, just in case, and then Polly ran them all through the laminating machine so they’d survive the spills ahead. We’d hand out the placemats just before dismissal, and the kids and their grandparents could use them for Thanksgiving dinner and beyond.

I hit the brakes at a stop sign and turned to give my father my serious look. “Promise me. No wild stuff like pony or airplane rides, and only clean jokes. Actually, no jokes at all, just to be on the safe side. All you have to do is smile and look cute, Dad. And let the kids drag you around by the hand if they need to. And do not, I repeat, do not, hit on any of the grandmothers. Or Polly.”

I drove up the driveway to the school, past the clay fish totem pole and the plywood teddy bears.

I pulled into a parking space. My dad flashed me a big grin. “Don’t get your knickers all in a bunch, sweetie pie. Have you ever known your dear old daddy to let you down?”

Chapter Two

The grandparents managed to contain themselves, but the kids were bouncing off the walls as they entered the classroom. I would have loved to take everybody out and make them run a few laps around the school to burn off some energy, but I knew my boss would kill me if any grandparents keeled over.

My father stood beside me, four or five kids hanging off him like he was a piece of playground equipment.

Polly crossed the room in our direction.

“There she is,” my father said. “The longer I look, the prettier you get, darlin’.”

“The longah I look, the prettiah you get, darlin’,” four-year-old Julian said with perfect preschool parrotry.

“You can’t say that,” five-year-old Violet said. “Only Grandpa Billy can say that.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Julian said.

“I’m the boss of everyone,” five-year-old Millicent said.

“That’s the spirit, darlin’,” my father said. “You keep believing that.”

“Knock it off,” I whispered to my father.

A striking woman with red lips and silver hair walked toward us. She was wearing perfectly pressed wide-leg slate gray trouser pants and a white silk button-down blouse. One extra button was unbuttoned to show off her chunky silver necklace, as well as some substantial cleavage.

Of course, she ignored me and went right for my dad. “Shelby Byrne, Pandora’s grandmother.” She held out her hand.

“Billy Boy Hurlihy doesn’t shake hands with beautiful women.” My father took her hand, brought it to his lips. Then he danced her around a few steps and dipped her, long and low.

I held my breath, hoping that Pandora’s grandmother’s back was as limber as it looked. It would be a bummer of an incident report to have to write and turn in at the office. Pandora’s grandmother inadvertently injured her back this morning while dipping. Ice was applied and every effort was made to keep her separated from the dipper.”

Fortunately, she returned to vertical with a giggle. “Well, you certainly beat those old fuddy duddies I’ve met on Rematch.com.” She held my father’s gaze while she reached into her trouser pocket and handed him a card. “Call me, Billy Boy Hurlihy, and we’ll go out on the town. I’m here till Tuesday.”

“Will do, darlin’, will do.” My father reached into his pocket and pulled out a Bark & Roll Forever business card with a dog treat attached. “I might even pick you up in the ice cream truck.”

“My turn, Grandpa Billy, my turn,” four-year-old Juliette said. She held her hand out to be kissed. The other kids, girls and boys alike, held out their hands to be kissed, too.

I nodded to Polly, waited until she was in position, clapped my hands.

“Okay, everybody. Walking on your tippiest tippy toes, line up in a single file,” I yelled. I rearranged clumps of kids and grandparents into a single line behind Polly. I made my dad the caboose, hoping he might get into less trouble at the end of the line.

The turkey hop is a Thanksgiving twist on the bunny hop, and the bunny hop is essentially a conga line. My iPhone was already sitting in the charging dock with speakers I’d finally bought with my own money at the start of the school year, a huge upgrade to our classroom CD player, cassette deck and ancient turntable. I found the upbeat, instrumental version of “The Bunny Hop” on a children’s classic dance favorites album I’d downloaded.

I stayed where I was and began demonstrating the movements: a forward jump, a backward jump, a forward jump, then three big jumps forward.

I pushed Play. Polly snaked the line around the classroom as the students and their grandparents all danced and sang along.

Hop your drumstick forward

Hop your wishbone back

Hop your drumstick forward

Hop, hop, hop

Join our new creation

Already a sensation

Do the turkey hop

Turkey, hop, hop, hop

“Stuffing” Polly yelled, the way we’d rehearsed it. “Green beans.”

Hop your stuffing forward

Hop your green beans back

Hop your stuffing forward

Hop, hop, hop

Join our new creation

Already a sensation

Do the turkey hop

Turkey, hop, hop, hop

The kids started yelling out their favorite Thanksgiving foods. We kept it going, verse after verse, until a couple of the kids accidentally jumped backward instead of forward, and the turkey hoppers started tumbling over like dominoes. A good preschool teacher knows when to wrap things up fast.

“Circle time,” I yelled as I stopped the music. Polly and I gathered everybody together on the big fluorescent orange circle, the heart of our classroom. Most of the grandparents were in pretty good shape and made it to the floor just fine. We got the ones who didn’t want to trek all the way down there seated on kiddie chairs, which were so small that they probably weren’t much of an upgrade from the floor.

My father, never one to shrink from a challenge, eased his way down until he was seated cross-legged on the circle. Half a dozen kids arranged themselves on his lap. Pandora’s grandmother looked like she wanted to join them.

When my dad ran a hand through the shock of white hair that always fell into his eyes, he reminded me of a giant cat grooming himself. Julian ran his hands through his own hair in a perfect imitation.

“You’re the bestest toy in this whole wide school,” three-year old Josiah said as he gave a big bounce in my father’s lap.

“Easy tiger,” my father said. “Watch out for the family jewels.”

“When my grammy and grampy come to visit, I have to wear underpants,” three-year-old Harper said.

Harper’s grandparents stared straight ahead and pretended not to hear her.

Josiah gave another bounce on my father’s lap. “When my nana and papa come, I’m not allowed to play bongo drums on my peepee and sing babaloo,” he said.

“Before you know it you’ll be all grown up, young man,” my father said, “and you can sing babaloo whenever the mood strikes.”

I took a page from Harper’s grandparents’ book and pretended not to hear my father.

“If you’re thankful and you know it, clap your hands,” I sang.

The kids jumped right in. “If you’re thankful and you know it, clap your hands. If you’re thankful and you know it, then you really gotta show it. If you’re thankful and you know it, clap your hands.”

What I was really thankful for was that I could tweak any song to fit any holiday—it was my superpower as a preschool teacher. We clapped our hands. We stamped our feet. Those of us who could snapped our fingers, and the younger kids faked it. We laughed out loud.

When circle time was over, we had mini pumpkin muffins for snack, and then the kids were free to choose their own activities. They rolled out floor mats or found seats at short tables to work independently. Shapes and colors and smell matching games, counting games, fine motor activities, letter tracing, sand play.

I stood for a moment watching Griffin’s grandmother read a book to him in our reading boat. When she turned the last page, she caught my eye and smiled. Griffin was sound asleep, his thumb in his mouth, a corner of one of the fluffy pillows clutched in his other hand.

“Griffin’s such a sweet little boy,” I said, thinking it best not to point out that his only fatal flaw was that he wasn’t quite as toilet trained as his parents had led us to believe he was.

“Just you wait,” his grandmother said. “Being a grand is the best thing ever. People tell you it’s because you can spoil them rotten for a few hours and then give them back to their parents. But that’s not really it. The biggest gift of having grandchildren is that it’s a do-over. You get to be a child again. I could spend another five hours playing at that sand table over there.”

I smiled. “Feel free. Just lock up when you leave.”

She smiled back. “Of course, that’s ages and ages away for you. How old are your children?”

“I don’t have any,” I said in a voice I didn’t quite recognize.

She waved a hand in front of her face. “You have plenty of time.”

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